I Am Not Jessica Chen(33)

But here I am, trying to verbalize my own pain, to justify my own existence, breaking it down into digestible points. Every word comes out a double-edged knife. This isn’t just a debate for me. This is my history, my life.

Then, finally, it’s over. The other team wins.

There’s a low sinking sensation in my stomach, but it’s more than defeat.

“Good job,” Liam says when we’re all getting up and shaking hands because we have to. His fingers are ice-cold; mine are warm, clammy. “And just to put it out there, I’m not, like, personally a massive fan of imperialism.”

“Right,” I say. “Sure.”

“It’s debating, you know?” he continues. “You can argue things you don’t believe in. That’s what makes a good debater.”

I give him a stiff smile. “I understand.”

“Well.” He already looks done with the conversation. “Better luck next time.”

I watch him as he ambles out of the classroom, his hands in his blazer pockets, Tracey and Lachlan following close behind him. Maybe he’ll brag about his win at dinner tonight, recount his finishing statement, and everyone will tell him how smart and eloquent he is. Or maybe he won’t, maybe this whole thing will have slipped his mind by the time he reaches his next class. That’s how little it matters to him.



But I’m still fuming over the debate when I slide into my seat in politics. I feel strangely shaken, like someone’s flipped my skin inside out, left a bitter, stale taste in my mouth. The more I think about it, the more my body recoils from the memory.

“Have you heard already?” Leela whispers, misreading the look on my face. She’s drumming both fingers on the table in a rapid, erratic rhythm, like a quickening heartbeat. I try to ignore it.

“Heard what?”

“Our tests have been marked,” Celine says, with the somber tone of a doctor delivering a medical report. “She’s going to hand them back this class.”

She’s not the only one nervous. All around the sunlit classroom, people’s faces are drawn, pinched, turned toward Ms. Lewis at the front of the classroom. Or, more accurately, the test papers stacked beside her.

When the last student has shuffled inside, she closes the door and rests her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a darker shade of lipstick today; it bleeds into the fine wrinkles around her lips when she speaks. “I appreciate that this was a difficult test for many of you,” she begins.

“Shit,” Celine hisses under her breath. “That means we’re screwed.”

Leela lets out a hysterical sort of laugh.

“We will review it together,” Ms. Lewis says. “I’ll call your names out one at a time. Whether you’re satisfied or not with your score, I suggest you keep your reactions . . . subdued.” She shoots a pointed look at Charlotte Heathers, who once famously leapt up onto the desk in joy when she got a ninety-five percent.

I squirm in my seat as the teacher reaches for the first test paper with what can only be deliberate slowness. She lifts it all the way up to her face, then lowers it, adjusts her reading glasses, and squints at the name. Not mine, this time. It’s like the moments before we headed into the test, but worse in many ways. Now there’s nothing we can do except wait.

And despite the teacher’s warning about subduing our reactions, I still can’t help assessing everyone’s expressions as they head up to retrieve their test. A few people’s faces crumple in relief, their tension cracking into a wide beam. They make their way back to their desks happily, patting their chests. Others aren’t so lucky.

Only Aaron’s face doesn’t change at all when he sees his score. As he passes me, I crane my neck and catch the one hundred percent scribbled at the top next to his name.

Typical.

Then a small shock goes through my body, a silent pressure, jolting me from my thoughts. I look up instinctively, and meet his gaze. He’s caught me staring. He tilts his head, spelling out a half question I don’t know how to answer. Jessica would have simply kept her eyes on her own paper.

“Jessica.”

I twist my head, my heart already beating in a frenzy. Ms. Lewis is holding out my test. Every possibility runs through my head, the greatest success and the most crushing failure. I suck in a deep breath and stand up to take it, flipping it over quickly to the first page, the sharp edge of it slicing my thumb.

Ninety-one percent.

My chest inflates, relief flushing through me, the corners of my lips leaping up. Ninety-one. I repeat the number inside my head, relishing it. It’s so much better than I would have expected. In the past, I had been getting consistent seventies and eighties in my politics tests. Maybe I’m not so bad at this subject. Maybe I could even be good at it, and I just didn’t have the right notes or study technique—

But then I see the look on the teacher’s face, and her eyes are heavy with such obvious concern you’d think I was dying right in front of her.

“Is everything okay at home, Jessica?” she whispers.

I blink, my smile faltering. “Um. Yes?”

At this, her concern only deepens. “Are you certain? Were you sick during the test?” She sounds almost hopeful, like nothing would put her mind at ease more than the idea of me taking this test with a high fever.

“No?” I say. By now I’ve been standing up here too long, and people are starting to stare.